A Chucks Wedding Tale
Formal Isn’t a Shoe—It’s a State of Soul.
Let the world wear stiff soles and aching arches—
We choose the power of rubber and canvas.
We choose Converse.
Because of this image,
this moment of a bride in blush pink Chucks
and a groom in battle-tested black ones,
says more than tradition ever could.
It says, 'We came as ourselves.'
It says: love doesn’t need polish to be real.
Weddings are about authenticity.
And what’s more honest than the shoes you’ve lived in,
laughed in, danced in, tripped in, and risen in again?
Chuck Taylors aren’t a rebellion against formality—
they are a redefinition of it.
They remind us that meaning isn’t stitched in patent leather,
it’s laced into the moments that matter.
A staircase turned sanctuary.
A satin dress and cotton canvas share the same spotlight.
Serious love doesn’t need serious shoes.
It needs grounded ones—ones that carry you from the aisle
to the afterparty, from the first look to the last laugh.
It needs shoes that feel like you.
That are you.
So here’s to the couples who wear their hearts on their sleeves
and their Chucks on their feet.
To the ones who rewrite the rules and still say "I do."
You didn’t just show up to the wedding—
you showed up as yourselves.
And that’s the boldest, most beautiful tradition there is.
Converse Chuck Taylor
Made for the big moments.
Worn through the real ones.
Short Story: “Too Foreign to be Local. Local to be Foreign”
In India, cricket isn't just a sport—it’s a religion. You see it everywhere: in dusty alleys, behind buildings, on roads barely wide enough for a game. Kids, uncles, aunties, cows, and stray dogs are all somehow part of the scene. Naturally, I joined in. I mean—I’m Indian. Of course, I played.
I got good. Good enough to make it into training programs, the kind where the game shifts from playful chaos to structured drills and silent ambition. It was serious. And I was serious about it, too.
I didn’t fully understand the language being spoken around me, but I didn’t need to. I could read people. I could feel the change in tone—the laughs that turned into whispers—every time my mom dropped me off at practice.
She’s white. So am I. But also—I’m not. I’m Indian. I grew up there. I ate the same food with my right hand, played the same games, and had the same skin. Still, it was strange watching how much respect my family got in spaces where other Indians were overlooked. It was like being part of something and apart from it all at the same time. At hotels, airports, or even event’s they ask me if I am with the Norling Family, which is interesting because I am standing right next to them
I kept playing, even when I started to understand that no matter how well I fit into the game, the culture, or the rhythm of the place, the system didn’t really have a place for me. I was too foreign to be local. Too local to be foreign.
But I played anyway—because of the street games, the sunburned afternoons, and the sound of the cork leather ball hitting the sweet spot on the wooden bat? That felt like home.
